Finals for Quint Magazine's next issue, both illustrations are made to show next to Dorian
"Paul D" Rogers poems, the circular illustration next to 'The
Phenomenology of Roundness' and the teardrop shaped one next to 'Make me Cry'. They are both inspired by the visual content of each poem and here they are:
The
Phenomenology of Roundness
by
Dorian "Paul D" Rogers
Life
is most definitely round.
I
stopped chasing my future when I found it in my back
pocket
after taking my clothes out of the wash the other day.
It
was hidden in the lint and blue jean matter.
I
no longer get teary-eyed when my past pants
in
my ears like a loose hyena.
I
reminisce my grandfather's laughs in the present
tense
although his tombstone where he lies lies
and
says he is long gone.
Time
is cyclical, and Westerners are dying earlier
from
the depressing effects of believing it is linear.
Certain
African tribes call it zamani, the "now-ness of time".
I
call it the roundness of time
because
that just sounds cooler.
I
will name my first daughter Zamani although my wife
will
call it "ghetto" and swear that I will be cursing her
to
a life of unemployment. I will tell her to get "o-ver" it
and
laugh at my own inside joke.
Our
universe is but one sud in a soda can.
Nipples
aren't erogenous zones but baby bulls' eyes.
When
someone calls you zero or rates you as such,
take
solace in the fact that they compared you to something round.
Nothing
squarish is cool except some board games.
Octagons
mean to halt. Triangles force you to be cautious.
Rectangles
sound like accidents and getting caught in snares.
Circles
claim the sun, earth, cells, and wombs as their shape-bearers.
Eggs
are this shape and so are buttons that fasten and unhinge.
Want
to have an equitable meeting?
Set
chairs in a circle.
Get
around to it.
Want
to tell someone you understand? Tell them, "Oh".
Look
in the mirror and say it to see what shape your lips make.
Form
your mouth in a round fashion to give the ultimate satisfaction to your man.
Men
get slapped by their spouses for getting distracted from roundness.
Ditch
the stop lights and take the round-a-bout.
Look
around you and all you will see is round.
Make
Me Cry
By
Dorian "Paul D" Rogers
Say
something saffron and crushed velvet that will crush me.
It's
been so long since I leaked from the cracked clay of cheekbone.
I've
become hardened and coarse,
barren
barely recognizable.
Nothing
moves me anymore.
Sing
me a novella through ghostlike windpipe. Vibrato me to weeping.
Tell
me a poem that will make the demons inside me snap
their
fingers and leave me in shame and repentance.
May
the Lord forgive them and solder angels' wings to their spiked spines.
Give
me an image that makes me remember why I'm here tonight.
Wake
me out of this fool's gold doldrums where cubic zirconium stars
dangle
from thin strings and tumble on to dull drums.
When
that first tear falls,
don't
be tempted to wipe it.
Let
it trickle down and
do
a rain dance like the indigenous
so
that more will be summoned
Some
will drip from my chin.
Others
will run down my neck
under
my shirt
down
my chest
leg
toes
and
form a puddle in the web between them.
Let
the dust there
become
fertile mud
where
a seed can be planted
and
a new life can begin.
But
first you have to bring me back
to
humanity, un-Frankenstein me
and
make me cry.
